Michelle looked up as the door opened. An older man entered the room.

“Welcome to our facility, Ms. Shank. My name is Dr. Steven Cole. I’m the Director here. I understand you’re a journalist? How can I be of assistance to you?”

Michelle instantly sized him up and was baffled by her discordant impressions. His open face and searching eyes, the set of his lips, slightly upturned at the corners, said ‘dreamer’ or ‘idealist’, but there were also overtones of ambition, and from the accentuated worry lines between his brows and on his forehead, anxiety. Most importantly, there was a clear signal of concealed threat. She sat up and confronted him.

“Why was I detained? I wasn’t trespassing.”

Cole smiled in response. “Security, Ms. Shank. This is a classified government research facility, and we unfortunately draw unwanted attention from individuals who disagree with our work. You saw the protestors at the gate when you came in?”

It wasn’t much of a protest. A handful of individuals dressed in motley clothing holding signs.

“So?”

“We have to make sure everyone stays safe. The last thing we need is some misguided individual getting themselves injured or worse by trying to break in. We cooperate with them as best we can, but sometimes things escalate. That’s all. So, what can we do for you?”

“Tell me more about the research. What are they protesting against?”

“This an animal research facility funded by the military. We work with dogs, developing breeds that can operate in a battlefield environment as adjuncts to other weapons systems.”

“Super pets?”

Cole shook his head with a smile.

“Not at all, nothing that crude. We’ll leave that to the Chinese, though the public, and the protestors in particular, can’t seem to let that go. Part of the general animosity toward genetic technologies, I suppose. Would you like a quick tour? I have some time before my next obligation.”

Steady voice, direct gaze, no tics of evasion – he was telling the truth. Michelle was intrigued. She hesitated and he pressed on.

“Come, let me show you around.” Cole stood back and gestured to the door.

This is too easy, Michelle thought. She stood and followed him, remaining silent to force him to lead.

“I understand you are from Chicago. Usually it’s the West Coast news organizations sending reporters out here, sometimes from the east. But you are the first from Chicago.”

Michelle noted his deep knowledge about her, and the implications of his ability and resources to identify and research her so quickly. She would have to be careful about how much more she revealed. Nothing about the murder. Or the school. Or Adam. Especially not Adam.

“Yes, I work for Tribcorp. Long term contract, but essentially free-lance. They give me a lot of latitude to pursue interesting stories. This one caught my attention.”

“But what story? We have mercifully kept a low profile, despite the efforts of our friends at the gate. It’s really not very controversial, what we do here.”

“Well, maybe that’s the story, how misunderstood the facility is,” Michelle responded with a smile. Cole reciprocated and led her out.

They passed through a number of non-descript industrial areas, storage rooms filled with equipment. He led her past an administrative area, then turned down a hallway and then outside. In front of them was a large dusty yard, lined with fenced kennels along one side. A group of dogs frolicked in an open area, supervised by three handlers. The dogs chased and fetched various toys, or played running free.

As they approached, every dog stopped and, as a group, turned to stare at Michelle and the Director. The intense interest from all of them unnerved Michelle. It only lasted a moment, and in response to a whistle from the handler, they returned to their play.

“This is our recreational area, so to speak. The dogs undergo intensive training several times a day, but then we give them playtime. A reward for their attention. After this they’ll eat, rest, and back to training.”

“What kind of training?”

“There are three general areas: problem solving, battlefield acclimation, and intelligence testing. The problem solving focuses on specific tactical problems in the field, working with humans and machines. Battlefield acclimation is to ensure that the sights and sounds of combat do not frighten or distract them.”

“And the intelligence testing?”

Cole smiled.

“We actively breed them to improve our working stock. Once we identify specific skills in an individual, we try to replicate them in subsequent litters to amplify and integrate them with other desirable traits. We have a significant genomic research capability here to accomplish that. Improve on what nature gives us.”

Cole beamed with obvious pride in his work, and again, his steady voice and eye contact indicated the truth of everything he’d related. She looked out toward the dogs. Genomic research? Izzy’s hunch about the bone tickled in the back of her mind.

Somebody made this. Start with the lab. But these were dogs.

She toyed with the verbal harpoon in her mind, the question that would shock him into some betrayal of the truth, a slip, a blurted remark, an unguarded facial expression.

Do you work with other animals? Do you work with gorillas?

She watched the dogs playing, with Cole watching her. She put it aside for later.

Cole leaned on the railing and smiled again.

“You see, Ms. Shank? Dogs. Just dogs. And very well cared for, I might add.”

Steven Cole gestured to the kennels. Michelle looked over and saw the mix of various breeds, all large, well-groomed, shepherds, labs, and smaller collie mixes. At Cole’s movement, they turned again to watch her intently, that same disconcerting attention, then resumed their frolicking.

“Despite what the animal rights activists would have you believe, we do nothing cruel or harmful to these animals. Quite the contrary, these dogs are carefully selected for intelligence and motivation, and are highly trained. We have too much invested in them to treat them carelessly.”

“Trained for what?” Michelle asked.

Cole smiled back, but this time with a trace of steeliness.

“Combat assistants. The U.S. military has a long tradition of using dogs on the battlefield as couriers, sentries, and scouts. We work with the Automated Combat Systems group at the main lab to integrate battlefield systems with non-human components. Basically, we’re using the animals to help the robots, and vice versa. Anything to save human lives and keep American soldiers out of harm’s way.”

They turned away from the yard and returned to the building. Inside, they stopped in a corridor at the approach of an elderly man walking briskly down the hall, staring at them intently.

“Ah, how timely. Ms. Shank, this is Dr. Bruno Abrams, my collaborator and the lead researcher for our project here. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? Dr. Abrams is a renowned geneticist and applied genomicist.”

Abrams demeanor changed, eyes widened, flushing, a look of shock. Recognition? Then a wave of sadness, subtle and brief, but obvious to Michelle. Abrams extended his hand, and Michelle shook it, smiling. He recovered and reciprocated, but the undercurrent of sadness persisted, increasing as his gaze lingered on her. An awkward silence ensued.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abrams. This is quite an interesting project here,” Michelle finally offered. Abrams continued his sad smile, then blinked, once, twice, three times, cleared his throat, and half turned, pretending to look out the window.

“Yes, thank you, we…” he cleared his throat again, “…are very proud of our work here. I’m glad you are…do…find it interesting.”

What is going on here, Michelle wondered, watching him closely without staring. Abrams and Cole exchanged awkward smiles and nodded at each other, covering some other tension, clearly at a loss as to how to proceed.

“I hope I’ve satisfied your curiosity, Ms. Shank. I can have Security take you back to your vehicle now,” Cole offered.

Abrams’ interesting reaction to her and the signs of discord between Cole and Abrams prompted a quick decision. Michelle turned to Cole.

“May I interview Dr. Abrams? If you have time, of course,” she said, looking back at Abrams. He hesitated, then Abrams nodded.

“Of course. We can go back to my office.”

Cole’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, brow furrowed, but made no objection.

Michelle turned back to Cole.

“Thank you for showing me around. I agree, those dogs seem healthy, smart, and happy.”

“I’m glad you agree. I can put you in touch with our Public Affairs person if you have any other questions.” He paused, studying them both. “Well, why don’t I leave you two. I have other duties to attend to. When you are finished, Dr. Abrams can escort you out. Dr. Abrams?”

Abrams dipped his head and Cole hurried away. Abrams then led Michelle down the hall, gesturing at several more doors leading into laboratory areas.

“This is where our genomics work is done, mostly on computers, some molecular biology work. Those over there are secured areas, contamination concerns and so forth. I can’t take you in there.”

They turned the corner and Michelle came face to face with the man from the parking lot at Adam’s school, the one who looked just like how she remembered the Moor, the man from the bar three years ago and the stolen kiss. Now she was sure he was the same person.

Michelle stopped and gaped. Cold perspiration misted her skin and her heart rolled in her chest as a powerful intuition of imminent peril jangled every nerve in her body.

“Ms. Shank, this is Dr. Trey Isaac. He’s a visiting fellow on loan from Mt. Sinai in New York. Dr. Isaac, this is Michelle Shank, an enterprising journalist who wants to learn more about our projects.”

Michelle extended her hand tentatively.

“You know each other?” He arched an eyebrow and glanced between them. Dr. Isaac remained expressionless and made no move to shake hands.

“No, I…we…I’ve never met…” Michelle withdrew her hand.

Isaac nodded, then abruptly continued down the hallway. Michelle and Abrams resumed their walk. Michelle took a deep breath.

She sensed Abrams watching her with concern, slightly turned toward her while he walked, solicitous, which made her more comfortable with him, but further compounded her difficulty focusing. She struggled to constrain the whirl of thoughts as they entered Abrams’ office and she took in the details.

“I apologize for that awkward interaction. Dr. Isaac is a brilliant genomicist, but verbal skills are not his strong suit, and he sometimes has challenges with basic social interactions. He’s really a lovely person, and an essential part of our team.”

Michelle feigned indifference with a dismissive wave of her hand. She turned her attention to the room, examining the wall decorations and fixtures.

Pictures of children on the desk. Plaques and citations on the wall. Pictures with famous people, leaders and politicians. Diplomas from prestigious schools.

“So, uh, what is your role here, Dr. Abrams? Wait, do you mind if I record this?” Michelle stammered.

“Oh, I’d rather you didn’t.”

Abrams smiled, gesturing to chairs, and they sat down. Michelle went through the motions of taking notes.

“I’m a genomicist, like Dr. Isaac. He and I work together developing and implementing techniques for gene editing as part of the research project here.”

“With the dogs?”

Abrams hesitated, then nodded.

“Yes, the dogs.”

Beneath the sadness and his intense focus on her, she sensed the first whiff of evasiveness.

“How did, how…where did you start your career?” Michelle knew she wasn’t doing a good job covering her emotions, and this man’s empathetic response was making it that much more difficult. They were in a feedback loop, an emotional resonance, Michelle’s disturbance at seeing the Moor evoking his compassion, her questions evoking sadness, she responded with concern, provoking more sadness. It was overwhelming.

“I attended medical school on a U.S. Army scholarship, did genetic research with infectious diseases at Ft. Detrick, but then moved into epigenomics and gene editing,” Abrams explained.

Michelle fumbled to formulate another question, while Abrams got up, went to his desk and picked up one of the framed pictures and returned to his seat. He stared at the picture, then Michelle, eyes welling.

“It’s remarkable…” he murmured.

There was an awkward pause.

“Is something wrong?” Michelle finally asked.

“It’s just that…you…you bear a striking resemblance to my daughter.” He passed the picture to Michelle. Sure enough, she saw it, the same dark eyes, the same gentle wave to the hair and the widows peak accenting a generous forehead. Michelle even saw similarities with her smile. It was a little unnerving, like seeing another version of herself.

“Oh, she does look like me. I mean, I look like her. What does she do?” Michelle looked up to see Abrams wiping his eyes.

“She’s deceased, many years ago. My wife and children…were in a terrible accident. Seeing you… it just brought back memories. I’m sorry, I just…I should be more professional. I apologize, Ms. Shank.”

“I am so sorry. Please, don’t apologize, I completely understand. I lost both my parents a few years ago. It still doesn’t seem real to me. Sometimes tears catch me when I least expect them.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

They made more small talk, changing the subject often, but made no further attempts at discussing the lab. Michelle couldn’t focus, overwhelmed by the empathy of his grief while trying to connect the dots of her encounter with Dr. Isaac, and how he would have been in Chicago at the bar a few years ago, as well as here in Rexburg. Although she sensed both Cole and Abrams withheld important details, Abrams at least seemed unthreatening. But a possible link between the school and the lab was unsettling.

She brought the meeting to a close. She needed to get away and think, process. Abrams willingly agreed, and he led her back to the front entrance.

***

Back at his desk, Abrams tried to focus on the impending meeting with the auditors. His eyes kept drifting back to the portrait of his family. He picked up the picture and touched the faces of his dead wife and children.

It’s a failure, a catastrophic failure, I see that now. My hubris is my undoing.

Chapter 40